HUGO and AGATHA. Evening

Hugo: I will leave you now—we have talked enough, And for one so tenderly reared and nursed This journey is wearisome, perhaps, and rough.

Agatha: Will you not finish your story first?

Hugo: I repent me that I began it now, 'Tis a dismal tale for a maiden's ears; Your cheek is pale already, your brow Is sad, and your eyes are moist with tears.

Agatha: It may be thus, I am lightly vexed, But the tears will lightly come and go; I can cry one moment and laugh the next, Yet I have seen terrors, as well you know. I remember that flight through moss and fern, The moonlit shadows, the hoofs that rolled In fierce pursuit, and the ending stern, And the hawk that left his prey on the wold.

Hugo: I have sorrowed since that I left you there: Your friends were close behind on the heath, Though not so close as I thought they were. (Aside.) Now I will not tell her of Harold's death.

Agatha: 'Tis true, I was justly punished, and men, As a rule, of pity have little share; Had I died you had cared but little then.

Hugo: But little then, yet now I should care More than you think for. Now, good-night. Tears still? Ere I leave you, child, alone, Must I dry your cheeks?

Agatha: Nay, I am not quite Such a child but what I can dry my own. [Hugo goes out. Agatha retires.]

Orion (singing outside the window of Agatha's chamber):

'Neath the stems with blossoms laden, 'Neath the tendrils curling, I, thy servant, sing, oh, maiden! I, thy slave, oh, darling! Lo! the shaft that slew the red deer, At the elk may fly too. Spare them not! The dead are dead, dear, Let the living die too.

Where the wiles of serpent mingle, And the looks of dove lie, Where small hands in strong hands tingle, Loving eyes meet lovely: Where the harder natures soften, And the softer harden— Certes! such things have been often Since we left Eve's garden.

Sweeter follies herald sadder Sins—look not too closely; Tongue of asp and tooth of adder Under leaf of rose lie. Warned, advised in vain, abandon Warning and advice too, Let the child lay wilful hand on Den of cockatrice too.

I, thy servant, or thy master, One or both—no matter; If the former—firmer, faster, Surer still the latter— Lull thee, soothe thee with my singing, Bid thee sleep, and ponder On my lullabies still ringing Through thy dreamland yonder.